


You Again

by followthefreedomtrail



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dubious Sanity, F/M, Fighting, Fix-It, No y/n l/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 16:55:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followthefreedomtrail/pseuds/followthefreedomtrail
Summary: Arthur Morgan doesn’t believe he deserves second chances. You disagree.Or, the one where you make sure Arthur Morgan stays the hell away from Thomas Downes.





	You Again

**Author's Note:**

> Help, I can’t stop writing this cowboyyyy. I don’t even know how many words this is. Jesus Christ, probably a lot.
> 
> I really get distracted by y/n l/n so I couldn’t do it. I hope it’s immersive the way it is.
> 
> xoxo

You don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve seen the exact combination of his features. Maybe it was only hours ago, maybe whole decades. All you know is that however long you’ve spent without him is time he’s been dead.

Or, supposed to have been dead.

That’s what you were told. You had no reason not to believe Charles. He isn’t the type to lie to you. Never has lied to you. And he wouldn’t, not about this.

So why is Arthur Morgan walking out of the saloon in Valentine?

You take extra time to make sure it _is_ him. It wouldn’t be the first time you hallucinated hair golden brown and untrimmed, or distinctly worn boots, or that characteristic gait of his, legs set wide. It catches your eye, and at first, you dismiss it the way you have every other time: as pure coincidence. Just someone who looks too familiar and doesn’t know that they bear striking resemblance to the man you’ve loved and lost and grieved.

Pathetically, you always hope. And pathetically, you’re always crushed when he hasn’t miraculously resurrected. The gunslinging love of your life is rotting in the ground and you’d do well to bury your longing with him.

But this time–_this time_.

Oh. This doppelgänger, this not-Arthur-Morgan, even dresses the same way and you double take.

God. He’s the exact same height. All the same damn mannerisms. The way he saunters toward the general store and leans against the building, the way he holds a cigarette in his hand and casually lights it with a match struck against the sole of his boot, down to the two-finger salute he gives in greeting to the townsfolk, all of it _screams_ Arthur and your heart is being wrung out painfully within you.

You know better. But still, you walk forward because it’s just too fucking uncanny.

A man walks by not-Arthur and greets him. “Morning, sir.”

And then your not-Arthur speaks, bids the stranger a good morning, and you walk faster because he _sounds_ the way you remember.

You stop on the muddy ground in front of the imposter and just stare. You believe for a moment it’s started raining, but you soon realize the storm is you; you’re crying.

“Arthur?” It’s barely a sound at all, and he doesn’t hear or see you. Takes another drag of his cigarette with his eyes on his boots.

You could leave and this poor man wouldn’t have to deal with the wounds in you that he didn’t cause but that he’s unintentionally scraping back open. It’s fairer for him that way. But you just _can’t. Move._

Coughing, you try to clear your throat. It does nothing. Your hands ball up and go limp around the nothingness in them and you sigh a broken, “Arthur.”

Now, he hears you. Looks up in time to see you running into him and barely has enough time to put out his cigarette before you’re locking your arms around his waist in a death-grip.

He murmurs your name, confused, and grunts when you squeeze him tighter. “Darlin’, what’re you doin’?”

This man is doing you no favors. He’s indulging your fever dream in a twisted joke. You pull back and the tears fall ceaselessly, harder when one of his hands grips your shoulder and you take in the worried creases that mark his face like they used to Arthur’s. “Stop that,” you beg.

“What?”

“_That_.”

His eyes squint as he tries to understand. “Uh… ‘fraid I don’t follow.”

“This is crazy.” You shake your head. Your fingers run over the stubble that has built up on his cheeks and they prickle at the familiar sensation.

“Are you… cryin’?” he asks, now fully perplexed. His thumbs interrupt the flow of water down your cheeks and he frowns.

Your eyes flick between his, absolutely terrified to look anywhere else lest he disappear and leave you again, this time with a bigger hole in your chest. “Ain’t no way. No way in hell.”

“Think you should lay down.”

Despite how clearly disconcerted not-Arthur is, you don’t respond. Your skin on his is something you’d believed you’d never feel again. You flip your hand over and caress the rough skin of his cheek.

He takes your hand gently into his much larger one and pulls it from his face. At first, it stings like rejection, but then you realize he’s blushing and people are staring. “What’s goin’ on with you?” He covers your forehead with one warm hand. “You ain’t sick, are you?”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Jus’ grabbin’ some things. Headin’ out to collect a debt for Strauss–”

You hear the grind of your jaw echoing in your head. “Strauss?” you growl, thoroughly lost because you’d thought Arthur had sent him packing.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Didn’t know your feelings about him was so strong.”

The blood all rushes from your face at once. You don’t know this man and you really don’t understand how he knows Strauss or why he isn’t dead.

“What’s the _date_?”

“Jesus, woman, you been drinkin’? How much you had?”

“Where’s the camp?” you demand frantically.

Not-Arthur’s hands hold your upper arms firmly as he looks you over. You’re clinging to his shirt, fingers twisted in the fabric, and you won’t let go for anything. In a low and serious voice, not-Arthur mumbles your name. “I’m real worried about you.”

You swallow down the panic bubbling up. Your voice is small when you ask, “Who are you collecting from?”

“That Downes feller–”

“NO!”

You should be embarrassed. Passerbys have turned to look at you and not-Arthur’s mouth is still open, though he doesn’t finish his sentence, but you just don’t care anymore. Not about anyone else or even how you got here.

“Why do you do it?” Your voice shakes, barely holding up the weight of everything he doesn’t know and everything you _do_. You’re liable to snap at any moment, or wake up at least, but how can you not warn him when he’s so tangible, standing right in front of you?

Not-Arthur, who somehow probably _really is _just your Arthur, shakes his head and is halfway through your name when you interrupt him.

“I know you don’t like this work,” you tighten your grip on his shirt and draw your eyebrows together, “so why do you do it?”

His sigh is an admission–that you’re right. He does hate money-lending work. “Someone’s got to. We need the money.”

“Don’t do his bidding anymore, Arthur, he’s a goddamn snake!”

“You need a doctor,” he insists, eyes tight around the edges. He takes your hands in his and tugs you toward the doctor’s office. “C’mon with me, I’ll take you.”

You resist, pulling him back. “I really don’t. I promise I’m okay.”

_More than okay_, you think. _Ecstatic. Perfect and wonderful and marvelous and every variation of the word ‘joyful’. _You reach up to rest your fingertips against the curve of his cheek, swallowing more tears.

Real.

Real and uninfected, if not healthy.

You’re so happy, you could kiss him. And you would, if you didn’t think it would shock him. Even just with the way you’re stroking his face, he’s turning bright pink.

He has to clear his throat to speak. “You, uh… really ought to let someone look you over.”

“I think…” you start, staring at him strangely, like he’s an apparition. A manifestation of how deeply you’ve missed him. You don’t mean to; you try to give him space but it’s so hard not to touch him when you know what it is not to be able to. A few more seconds and you say, “Think I just need to eat.”

He nods slowly. “Okay. Sure.”

Arthur leads you into the saloon and orders you a meal. While you wait, he seats you at a table and you both stare at the other for very different reasons. He clearly thinks you’ve suffered a mental break. Were it not for his aversion to doctors, you know he’d have you being evaluated right then, no matter how much you go on insisting you’re fine.

You, to be completely honest, are also questioning your sanity, though not too intensely. This feels pretty harmless as far as delusions go. Rather pleasant, even.

“Any injuries?” he asks as you as you sandwich one of his hands between yours, trapping his warmth against you.

You’ve missed him terribly. So terribly, you forget to pay attention to the words he says instead of the sound of his voice when he says them. “What?”

“Injuries?” He gestures to his temple. “To your head.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re so stupidly happy that you smile at the dark joke anyway. “Oh, _har har_, Mr. Morgan, veeery funny.”

He chuckles and relaxes into his chair. “You are one strange woman.”

“Is it so hard to believe someone missed you?”

“I am sure you did miss me somethin’ awful since I last seen you. This mornin’, yellin’ at me over my goddamn clothes.”

You look to the side and out the window, fighting a smile. You remember that day, sort of. At least now you have a better idea of what’s going on. “It _weren’t_ yellin’.”

“Then I do not wish to hear you yell.”

He makes you crack a grin so you’re forced to retaliate. You thrust the heel of your palm against his shoulder. You’re sure he exaggerates how far back you push him to make you feel better.

The barkeep sets a warm plate of food down in front of you. It smells so good that you realize you really are hungry. You eat slowly, trying to drag out the time. You aren’t sure what excuse will get Arthur to abandon his camp duty as debt collector. By the time you finish, all you can think to suggest is running away and you know he won’t. Not from his only family.

You stare down at the last forkful of food and push it around your plate.

“You feel better?”

“I’ll feel best if you don’t go,” you say quietly, looking up at him through your lashes. As if they can shield you from the answer you know he’ll give.

His fingers brush against the inside of your wrist. On accident, you think, because you haven’t been able to separate farther than an inch from his hand since you sat down, but it makes you feel warm. “Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely concerned about what he isn’t seeing.

You can’t think of any response that will turn things in your favor. At this point in time, he hardly knows you. Certainly not like he will later.

Emotion builds in your chest. It might split you open, that pressure, that knowledge that if you fail now, he’ll die young. Far younger than he deserves to. And you, of course, will be twice as devastated. You look at him with all of that raging fear inside you and hold his hands in yours tightly.

It spills out of you so quickly, you hardly even taste the words, don’t realize you mean them until after they’re said.

“I’ll settle the debt.”

“You’ll… what?”

You nod fervently. “How much is it? I can pay it off.”

Arthur shakes his head and laughs, short and dry. “Ain’t your debt to pay. You didn’t borrow that money.”

“I want to,” you insist, nails digging into his skin. He flinches and you force yourself to let him go. “How much?”

He leans toward you, a sudden flash of suspicion in his eyes. “Woman, if you know somethin’–”

“_Arthur_,” you beg, crying silently because he doesn’t trust you anymore, “_it ain’t like that_.”

“Well then, what is it like?” He jerks his hands from yours in one short, agitated movement. “Hmm?”

Your lower lip trembling, you tell him, “F-folks say he’s sick.”

“So?”

“_Dying_.”

He nods. “Sure.”

“If you leave,” you look around the room, search for something to finish your sentence with, “I will… I will… start a bar fight.”

“Really?” he scoffs.

“I will. I will punch that man in the nose.” You point at a large patron seated at a corner table. He’s minding his business. You really hope you don’t have to fight him.

“Pardon me if I don’t find that very convincing.”

You know it isn’t. Arthur doesn’t know you to be violent at all. At heart, you aren’t, but you’ve learned to be when you need to. This may be one of those times.

“I’m deadly serious,” you insist, trying your best to look sincere. If you play the part well enough, you might be able to avoid the fight altogether.

“Him?” Arthur points at the same man you had.

“Yes.”

“That feller?”

“_Yes_.”

He nods and motions with his hand and your stomach drops as you realize he’s calling your bluff.

Dammit. Goddammit.

You look to the man and back to Arthur, who only smiles at you.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” he taunts, crossing his arms over his chest. “Go on.”

This is the worst idea you’ve ever had. You stall, fiddling with loose threads on your skirt until Arthur pushes himself out of his seat and holds a hand out to you.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, “You tell Miss Grimshaw where you went?”

You snort. “She ain’t my mama.”

“She’ll be angry with me if I don’t get you back.”

“You’re just gonna drop me off and then go see that Thomas Downes.”

“That was my plan, yes.”

“Well then,” you gulp, “I have no choice.”

You march with purpose over to the man you promised to fight and will yourself not to think too hard about this. Once you’re in front of him, though, you hesitate. He looks up at you, confused. You hear boots scuffing behind you but before anything can be stopped, you mutter a heartfelt, “so sorry, Mister,” and your fist slams into his jaw.

Your knuckles throb. You cradle your afflicted hand in your good one. His face is unexpectedly sturdy, or maybe that’s just how it feels to punch someone. You aren’t particularly fond of hand-to-hand combat, you decide.

Arthur grabs your shoulders and drags you aside, muttering a string of curses and reprimands that is cut short by the other man’s retaliation.

Forgetting your own swollen hand, you cup your mouth when you gasp as Arthur is knocked to the ground, face down. He groans against the floor but doesn’t move.

You’re terrified he’s concussed, or worse. “Arthur?” you ask, face contorted in vicarious pain.

Another groan. Weakly, he assures you, “Yeahhh, I’m okay.”

He starts to raise himself and you see the man twitch towards him. As if it wasn’t you that started this mess, you intervene.

“Wait!” You grab the man’s vest. It takes all your might to persuade him to focus on you first. “I thought you was someone else. I apologize–this is all a misunderstanding. I–”

You duck just in time to avoid the second punch. Arthur isn’t as lucky, but it seems to piss him off enough that things more or less even out.

“Okay, tough guy.” Arthur spits blood onto the ground and then rushes at the man.

This is your fault. You feel awful–but it is still better than TB. Arthur would make the same trade, if he knew he could.

The brawl doesn’t last longer than a minute, though it feels endless. Every hit Arthur takes, you feel on your own body. A small crowd gathers, not cheering for anyone in particular, just entertained by the prospect of a fight.

When Arthur finally tosses the man across a table, he buys himself enough time to flee. He hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you toward the exit. “Move, now.”

Breathless, you try to move your feet to keep up with his and look him over. You can see a bloody lip and some scrapes and swelling along his cheekbone and brow from your current angle. Not to mention he’s scowling.

You’re in for it.

“How bad did he get you?” you ask.

He mounts his horse and helps you up onto the saddle behind him. “Oh, now you’re concerned about my wellbeing?”

Neither of you look back toward the saloon as you ride away. You lean against Arthur’s back, incredibly happy that he’s still here, strong and solid in your arms, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s angry with you.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. How was I supposed to know he’d go after you like that?”

“You was _supposed_ to know it was a goddamn foolish idea to go punchin’ strangers in the first place.”

He isn’t wrong. It was stupid, what you did. Embarrassed, you keep your mouth shut until you ride into camp. It’s Bill on watch when you get there and you find that his face isn’t one you miss. It’ll be difficult to explain the grudges you harbor against a few of the gang members now, especially Dutch, but you don’t really care at the moment. All of that comes second to pleading Arthur’s forgiveness.

He dismounts and avoids your eyes as he helps you down.

You don’t let go of his hand when he tries to pull it away. “Arthur, wait. I am so sorry.”

He puts his hands on his hips and says your name in that scolding way that breaks your heart. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

You gape. “Me?”

“Yes, _you. _You coulda got us both goddamn killed, startin’ fights like that for no goddamn reason!”

“It weren’t for no reason,” you defend yourself with a shaky voice. He’s riling you up, always could make you angry like no one else.

Hosea hears your argument from where he sits. Well, everyone probably hears you. Hosea is just the only one who comes over to mediate. “What’s the problem?”

Arthur laughs bitterly and shakes his head. “You’re crazy, woman.”

You glare at him, frustrated by the whole situation, by how Arthur is making you look in front of everyone. Like you’re a lunatic. You _do _have your reasons, not that you care to share. Then he’d truly think you mad.

Unable to think of anything to say, you just shout in exasperation and turn and walk back into the forest.

Arthur yells to ask where you think you’re going and Hosea calls your name but you just keep walking until you can’t hear them anymore and you’re standing beside the trail. You kick at the dirt, not sure where you even want to go. All you know is you hate fighting with Arthur. Especially when you just got him back.

You hear his approach, footsteps too heavy to be Hosea’s, and it makes you shut your eyes to dam your tears. Still breathing heavily, you cross your arms over your torso and try to relax.

A few moments of silence pass before he sighs and says your name.

Instead of looking at him, you just try to keep taking sharp intakes of breath. Not that it calms your heart any.

He says it again, louder. “Look at me.”

You turn to him reluctantly, eyes guarded. “What do you want?”

Arthur sighs. “I’m sorry for… I don’t know. I’m sorry, alright?”

Hosea must’ve told him to apologize. You roll you eyes, giving him your back again when he reaches for your arms and stops you.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Well you did.”

“I know. And I don’t pretend to understand you but… I’m sorry.” When you don’t move, considering his words, he leans down and gently moves your face to his, now very close. “You forgive me?”

“Don’t go see Downes,” you whisper.

He hangs his head and lets out a quiet sigh. When he looks back up, he gives in. “I promise not to.”

Overjoyed and teary, you kiss his cheek and wrap him into a tight embrace. He doesn’t immediately recirprocate, too flustered by the affection, but he does pat your back after a few frozen seconds.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” you sob, smiling wide into his shoulder. “I’ll get you the money, Arthur, and no one needs to know. Thank you so much!”

His other hand eventually comes to rest on your lower back and his pats turn into reassuring circles rubbed between your shoulders. “Ah, don’t worry about that.”

Before you know it, you’re crying too hard to stop. You know you’re overwhelming him, but you can’t help how relieved you are. Of course, he can still die. You know that. But at least you can spare him that terrible, awful sickness. No more nights spent sleeping beside him, both of you woken by coughing fits and blood. No more wheezing breaths, never sure which one will be his last.

He can outlive this gang. He has a chance.

“You’re alright, girl,” he murmurs against your hair. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You nod, squeezing him tighter.

He _is_ here, by some twist of fate. Far be it from you to question such a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not add onto this, depending on how inspired I am.
> 
> xoxo


End file.
